


The Laughter I Missed While I Was Away

by ToAStranger



Series: The Stories We'll Share When We Are Home [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, New Avengers, Or as well as can be predicted, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Thor: Ragnarok, Secret Avengers - Freeform, Text Therapy, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Civil War has come and gone.How do you begin to pick up the pieces?





	The Laughter I Missed While I Was Away

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Jokes I Told While You Were Gone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898151) by [ToAStranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger). 



> This is directly linked with "The Jokes I Told While You Were Gone" and begins directly after chapter five of that story. 
> 
> Each can be read individually or in tandem; two sides to a single coin.

“Wanda!” Clint hisses, sputtering as the water pouring out of the faucet diverts and hits him in the face again.  “Goddamn it--  _ Wanda _ !” 

Sam is sitting at the countertop, laughing all the while as Clint is drenched.  Red dances around the water, flares and wisps, and Steve would’ve been tempted to smile too, to laugh too, but something stops him as it always stops him.  

It is nice to see, Wanda gaining much more control over her abilities after being so fearful of using them.  It is the meditation, he knows, and the training she has been undergoing with some of the younger soon-to-be Dora Milajes.  The control they must have, over their bodies and their emotions, is startling and reassuring.  To see the benefits of Teela’s not-so-tender mercies is a mercy in itself. 

Clint finally manages to turn the water off just as the doors to their humble but comfortable quarters are infiltrated, T’Challa stepping in with Okoye at his flank.  Though Steve knows he’s fresh off of a flight from Beijing, he looks unruffled as ever, hands folded calmly behind his back as he nods his head in greeting to all of them. 

At the sight of Okoye, Wanda straightens up from where she’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, hands flitting a bit before tucking behind her back as well.  None of them misses the way Okoye’s mouth twitches. 

“Forgive me for intruding,” T’Challa says with a smile that is more tired than it is apologetic.  “I hope you were not up to anything important.” 

Clint is flustered.  “Just, uh… doing the dishes.  Or  _ trying _ .” 

“Of course,” T’Challa nods, gaze falling to Steve.  “Captain Rogers.  If I may have a word?” 

Steve rouses from the reverie he’d fallen into, eyes flicking toward T’Challa.  The loose grip he has on his glass shifts, an empty sound rolling over the counter top as he sets it down. 

“Of course.” He inclines his head just slightly before he stands, casting a brief glance back to what remained of his team before he takes after T’Challa.

He falls into step at T’Challa’s flank, eyes straying to the bay of windows the line the left side of the hall that extend between their quarters and the rest of T’Challa’s home.  He’d placed aside the wing for them after Steve had made his goals clear; he doesn’t regret breaking his team out of the Raft, even if he sometimes regrets the circumstances that lead them there. 

Outside, the world is misted in lazy gales of fog.  Wisps lap at the windows, at the vast wilderness that surrounds the palace, at the fading light of day.  Steve’s palm itches for a pencil. 

“Captain Rogers,” T’Challa finally says, after they’re a ways away from the rest of Steve’s team.  “I sincerely apologize for the suddenness of this meeting, but I wanted to update you on matters that may concern you and yours.” 

Steve hesitates for just a moment, eyes flicking T’challa’s way, although the king could find no suspicion in his gaze. There was something resigned in Steve's tone when he spoke. “It's no issue. Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem, no.” T'Challa shakes his head. “I thought it pertinent to update you on the Accords and the status of our addendums.”

“Your addendums.” Steve corrects, no real bite in his tone. “How are people taking it? I know you were optimistic, but I’m not sure how they’ll go down, all things considered.”

“There are a few stubborn supporters of the original papers still,” T’Challa admits.  “But the majority are easily swayed; it is hard to argue fact.  It helps that I have… had quite a bit of outside support.” 

Steve raises a brow at him. “What kind of outside support?”

“Mostly legal,” T’Challa says.  “But certainly you must have seen the press conferences Stark Industries has been having.” 

Steve’s expression sours, lips curling at the edges. “Actually, I’ve been out of the loop for a while.”

“Perhaps, then, you ought to start paying more attention.” T’Challa smiles, patient, though not without stiffness.  “It is not everyday that a man as powerful as Anthony Stark goes toe-to-toe with hundreds of politicians in order to adapt legislation to meet the needs of those who might oppose it.” 

T’Challa reaches out, clapping a hand onto Steve’s shoulder and giving a brief squeeze before letting go and stepping away.  

“Something to think about,” T’Challa says.  “I believe I’ve taken up enough of your time, Captain Rogers, and I admit I am tired from this trip.  Please, excuse me.” 

Steve falls silent for a moment before offering the king a tight smile. “Thank you for telling me.  I’ll see you around.”

“Good evening, Captain Rogers.” T’Challa dips his head and Steve echoes it in reply before T’Challa turns on his heel, Okoye trailing behind him, and leaves Steve standing there in the hall, the sun setting beyond the vast windows. 

* * *

Steve’s palms itch from the moment T’Challa speaks to him, a prickle over his skin, somewhere between suspicion and curiosity, until he is left alone with T’Challa’s words ringing in his head. It drives him to wander, restless through their wing, expression set as he paces. Not the peaceful allure of the jungle, or the company of his friends, could sway him from this restlessness. 

Eventually, Steve finds himself looking at the burner phone he keeps stowed away but always close; the tiny thing held in the palm of his hand.  He breathes out a slow breath, and after a short moment of consideration, opens the phone.  There is only one contact to message.

_ I hear you’re fighting the accords. Change of heart? _

There is no immediate response.  Steve finds himself somehow disappointed but unsurprised. 

He puts the phone away. 

* * *

It takes three days for him to take his mind off of the message that still has no reply.  It takes him a week to give in to whatever it is that has curled, low and unrelenting, in his stomach, and he sits at one of the stations in the small study T’Challa afforded them and pulls up a search with the keywords: Beijing + Accords + Tony Stark. 

The video that pops up above the list of articles is shockingly high definition, though whoever is holding the camera can’t seem to keep their hands still or their mouth shut, considering they keep shouting in Mandarin at where Tony is walking, eyes hidden behind a pair of rose colored glasses, looking more pale than when Steve had seen him last as he ducks the flashing cameras and bombardment of questions.  His hair is longer than it was.  Scrolling on the bottom of the screen, there’s a headline Steve can’t read, but when a female reporter corners Tony long enough, he can hear Tony reply as his words are captioned beneath him. 

“ _ What do you have to say to those accusing you of flip flopping _ ?” 

Tony’s smile is a familiar, dangerous one; all teeth and no eyes.  “ _ Christine, sweetheart, it’s good to see you.  If you’d like to ask me about my motives and opinions at this weekend’s meetings, I’d suggest you book an appointment like everyone else _ .” 

“ _ Are you denying that you’ve changed your, some would say  _ blind _ , support of the Accords, Mr. Stark?”  _

“ _ Well, I wouldn’t say that _ ,” Tony blew a kiss to one of the cameras.  “ _ But what I would say is the Accords are a necessary evil.  That oversight and restrictions are necessary to function in a society where people are afraid of Enhanced individuals.  But I wouldn’t say the the Accords are perfect, Ms. Everheart.  Far from it.”  _

Before she could ask another question, Tony had stepped into the open door of a car, and any chance of a follow-up was shut in her face.  

There’s more speculation, Tony’s picture on the screen next to some footage from the UN meeting at the Trade Center, but the language barrier gives Steve nothing to go on.  He sits back, away from the screen, and sighs. 

He’s so lost, for a moment, buried in thought and caught up in the sight of Tony’s fake, smiling face, that he nearly misses the buzz in his pocket.  He fishes it out, blindly, and opens it before frowning down at the text. 

_ Obviously you don’t know how politics work.  I’m not fighting them; I’m FIXING them.  _

There’s a pause.  Then, the phone buzzes in Steve’s palm again. 

_ Maybe ask Simba if he’s got a copy of the old ones around so you can take some comparative notes.  There have been a lot of changes since you disappeared into the mystic, pumpkin.  _

Steve gets the feeling he’s talking about more than just the Accords.  

* * *

Hours pass sat hunched over papers, enough natural light filtering in through the windows to light the Accords as Steve reads. A furrow lies between his brows, deep set as he wades through page after page of entries and jargon. He can feel the majority of the meaning slipping over his head, lacking the training to truly grasp the meaning wrapped up in the mess of legal vocabulary.

Tony, for once, was right.

Steve sits back and runs a hand over his face, a deep sense of exhaustion seeping into his bones. He remains that way as minutes tick past, staring somewhere between the horizon and the reflection he finds in the glass. 

The phone is in his hand before he can think to pick it up, a single message thread open before him. 

_ I’ll admit, you’ve made some progress. _

There is a long pause. When the reply comes, something unfamiliar and thrumming shifts in him, the knowledge that Tony is keeping the phone close enough at hand to know when Steve sends a message is equally unsettling as it is a relief. 

_ Some??? Do you have any idea how much money and time has gone into these things?  _

A beat. Then:

_ And before you say it, NO, not signing was not an option. Or don't you remember me telling you if we didn't do something it would be done TO us? _

_ Also: you're welcome.  _

Steve’s expression pinches up, and it takes him a moment to tamp down on the flare of anger in his chest. He knew Stark, knew him well enough to predict a response like this, but Steve has never found a way to keep it from getting under his skin. 

_ Not signing wasn’t an option for you.  I’ll respect that.  I’d just rather have someone try do something to me than sign onto something I can’t trust. _

The pause is longer this time.  Steve doesn't know if it's because Tony is busy or distracted by something in the lab or something else entirely; that drives him a little crazy too. 

For a moment, he wonders where Tony is right now. If he's with people. If he's alone. If he feels as listless as Steve does. 

The phone buzzes. 

_ And you couldn't trust me to watch your back? _

It nearly breaks his heart.  Makes him remember things he doesn't want to think on --  _ so was I  _ ringing in his head -- but then:

_ Nice catching up, Rogers. It'll please you to know that an entire continent away, you still make me want to pull my own hair out.  Sleep well, it's getting late in your neck of the woods.  _

Steve knows a  _ goodbye _ when he sees one. 

His fingers twitch, restless, looking for outlet, and his eyes scan the text. Steve heaves out a sigh and lets some of the anger pent up in his chest to fade. 

_ Likewise. Get some rest. I can talk to you later. _

* * *

There isn't exactly a later.  Not in the way Steve expects it. 

A week goes by, and Steve is starting to regret the door he left open in favor of a tired desire for the fighting -- the  _ mutually assured destruction _ \-- instead of the angry, petty words he'd wanted to type into those keys in the first place.  The phone is idle, a dead weight, in his pocket. Practically burns a hole through his damn jeans. 

He's lost count of the times he'd almost added something, like an afterthought, but the longer he hesitates, the worse that idea seems.  

Later comes on a particularly boring day.  There's only so many laps to run, so many things to see in the limited range T'Challa has given, and Steve is so restless that he's tempted to pick up a sketch pad he hasn't touched since arrival.  

He's sitting in the living room, nursing a cup of coffee as the sun rises, when later happens. His phone hums against his hip, and he reaches for it, fumbling, ignoring the odd look Wanda gives him from where she's curled up in a chair across from him, book propped open on her knees. 

_ Still playing hero? _

Steve frowns. 

_ Check the news, Brutus. There's something you should see.  _

Tentative, Steve grabs the remote and powers the television on.  He has to search to find a news channel, but when he does, his grip goes so tight around the remote that it groans. 

A bombing in Madrid. Enhanced not at play. A museum in ruins and people screaming. 

In his lap, the phone vibrates again. 

_ I'll be the first to admit the restrictions of the Accords blow. They're too tight on the best of days -- I'm working on it. But my hands are tied. There's no sign of Enhanced, just foul play, even if they were after something I already have in a vault.   _

Steve blinks down. So what? What does that even mean?

_ They want to keep it strictly local law enforcement despite the New Avengers’ offer of help. They won't catch the bastards in time.  _

Another pause. More questions, so many that Steve's head nearly aches. 

_ How do you feel about breaking a few laws today, Steven? _

The furrow between Steve’s brow deepens, and he moved to set his sketchbook aside, laying it on the coffee table. He sits up properly, staring down at the phone in his hand for a long moment before he replies. 

_ Where am I headed? _

He wonders if Tony is relieved. Or if he's smiling. Or if he'd known what Steve's answer would be all along. 

_ 40.3083° N, 3.7324° W _


End file.
